


...And There Was Only One Bed

by TheSwampWitch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Harsher in Hindsight, He’s kayaking; he’s fine, I suppose, M/M, Tim..., and there was only one bed, general melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 14:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwampWitch/pseuds/TheSwampWitch
Summary: After Jane Prentiss’s siege on Martin’s flat, Jon begrudgingly invites him to stay in the spare room in the Archives. However, as the title suggests, there’s only one bed, and both of our heroes have decided that they’re fine sleeping on the floor.





	...And There Was Only One Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this post: https://thejazzvoid.tumblr.com/post/187788448314/we-all-like-to-think-about-how-there-was-only-one

Jon wasn’t exactly excited to be sharing a room in the Archives with Martin Blackwood. He had never liked the man, and Jon was no psychic, but something about Martin just screamed “bad roommate.” Jon himself only used the room when he lost track of time and the statement of So-and-so Whatstheirname regarding …ghost spiders or some other nonsense kept him in the Archives past the last train home, or in case of emergency. And, Jon supposed, it was an emergency. Jane Prentiss had apparently laid siege to Martin’s flat for the past thirteen days, and Jon very well couldn’t turn him out so that Jane could finish him off.  


Only days before, Martin had been backed against his front door, listening to the squirming horde and their songs of love and belonging and decay and how lovely it would feel to be a home, but he was just as scared now at the prospect of sharing a room with Jonathan Sims. He had nothing against Jon, but Jon seemed to despise him and everything he tried to do, and though he had been in the Archives longer than anyone else still living (Elias didn’t quite count), he often felt as if he was intruding upon something that had long been in motion and most certainly didn’t need him. He didn’t want to force himself into Jon’s personal space as well, but he refused to go back to his flat and wait for the worms to come for him.  


The room in question was dark and mildewy, with bare, off-white walls and one small light in the ceiling. It was just big enough for a mini-fridge, a table with one chair, and a single twin bed. Martin noticed that even the two of them standing up was a bit uncomfortable, and he felt as if he were disturbing something every time he so much as touched anything in the room. Jon seemed rather on edge, but then, when didn’t he?  


“It’s not much,” Jon said stiffly, “but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”  


Martin wasn’t quite sure what to say, so he said nothing. Jon started trying haphazardly to make the bed, almost sheepishly, it seemed, though he still bore that constant expression of something between worry and disdain. It was almost endearing, but Martin began to suspect that Jon had never actually made a bed before.  


“I can–let me help you with that,” Martin stuttered, almost reflexively, and to his surprise, Jon let him.  


“I’ll take the floor,” Jon mumbled, with uncharacteristic softness in his voice, “I’m sure these past two weeks have been hell for you.”  


“No, Jon, I feel bad,” Martin replied, “It’s your room, it’s your bed; I’m fine, really.”  


“Martin.”  


“Jon, please, I–”  


With some difficulty, Jon pulled one of the blankets from the bed (it didn’t have any sort of quilt or comforter, Martin noticed), wrapped himself in it, and sat down on the floor right where he had been standing.  


“Jon, I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor,” Martin insisted.  


“I’m fine.”  


“At least just…just take a pillow.”  


Jon grabbed one, turned off the light, and wedged himself in between the wall and one side of the bed, just holding the pillow. He shot a glare at Martin, who by now was far too invested in his cause to realize just how silly all of this was. Martin sat down on the floor at the end of the bed. They stayed there in silence for what could have been anywhere between thirty seconds and thirty minutes, until Martin heard a sort of wheezing from across the room.  


“Are you all right?” Martin asked, and Jon began cackling outright.  


“It’s just–it–I–what are we trying to do here?” Jon managed to say, “We–we’re here, glaring at each other, and I…”  


“Jon, get off the floor,” said Martin, grinning in spite of everything, as Jon laughed his wheezy laugh that Martin had decided he could listen to forever, “You need your sleep. I’ve never seen you so much as smile before, and now look at you.”  


Jon’s face fell.  


“Martin,” he said, no trace of that frenetic humor remaining in his voice, “I’m fine here.”  


“I just feel bad, you know,” Martin said weakly, after a few moments of pressurized silence, “I can never do anything right–at least that’s what you seem to think–and here, I just show up at your doorstep after nearly two weeks without a word, and you take me in, even though you hate me, and I–”  


“I don’t,” Jon almost whispered, “Hate you, that is. You’re disorganized, inefficient, generally incompetent–I…I’m sorry; I’m just making it worse, aren’t I–but you’re…you’re not bad. And it’s not like you spent those thirteen days just lying about–I mean, you did, but you were walled into your flat by a cavalcade of worms.”  


“Did I lead her here?” Martin asked into the dark, finally allowing himself to consider the possibility.  
He froze at the sudden sound of rustling and soft footsteps across the carpet, some part of him certain that Jane Prentiss had chosen precisely this moment to reveal herself, just to torment him further. When Jon sat down next to him, he only grew more tense, if anything.  


“I don’t know,” Jon replied, every word heavy with fatigue.  


He draped one side of the blanket around Martin’s shoulders and handed him the pillow, and, for once, Martin didn’t try to stop him, because Jon had already pressed himself against Martin’s side. Jon let out a soft, ragged sigh, and Martin felt his heart skip a beat, despite the worry burrowing into him.  


They sat together at the end of the bed until morning. Martin woke up to find Jon’s face against his neck and the pillow somehow halfway across the room. Martin would have liked to let him sleep, but Jon suddenly shook himself awake, headbutting Martin in the jaw. Jon stood up, threw the pillow back on the bed and attempted to lay the blanket down somewhat flat. Martin grabbed the bag he had brought into the room with him, and together they stumbled out into the Archives.  


Tim, passing by, greeted them with raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk. “Congrats, I suppose,” he called out as he swept into Artefact Storage.  


“That’s Tim for you,” Martin said awkwardly, once Tim was out of earshot, and Jon responded with a pained smile.  


“Never change,” Jon added as he opened the door to his office, “Anyway, I can sleep on the floor tonight, if you’re staying in the Archives again.”


End file.
